Vegas Blues: I Walk the Line
by the morrighan
Summary: Detective John Sheppard discovers there are stranger things in Vegas than space aliens.
1. Chapter 1

Vegas Blues: I Walk the Line

"_I'll show you your destiny...John Sheppard!"_

Detective John Sheppard jolted awake. He sat, staring round as the deep, male, oddly melodic voice sounded in his ear. So vivid he half expected to see someone standing near his bed. Not a human, not quite. A piece of memory surfaced. A cell. A man who wasn't a man clad in prison blues. Ghoulish face. Emaciated body. Long, stringy hair. Rows and rows of teeth. Slitted eyes like a cat's.

John blinked, but the image was gone. The memory extinguished. He frowned. Ran a hand through his disordered dark brown hair. Over his stubbly jaw and chin. He looked at the clock. Glanced out at the window. The sun was shining as it rose in the pale, pale sky. Shining through the faded olive curtain that shaded the window. A second later the alarm rang. Blaring _Bad Company._

He reached over, shutting it off. Trying to recapture the pieces of memory evoked by that voice. By the startling words. But they were gone. As transparent as the light filtering into the room now. Dust motes danced in the air. Tiny sparkles that were visible, then gone.

His phone began to ring. He grabbed it from the night stand. "Yeah?"

"Morning to you too, Sheppard," came the amused voice of his boss, Captain Hendricks. "Homicide. Off the Strip. Pawn shop. Unis are there now. Texting you the address. Go."

"Going." John glanced at the address. Frowned. He was familiar with the place. Like he was familiar with most of the seedier parts of Vegas. The areas that tourists never saw. The areas where crime proliferated and where victims weren't mourned. Reports were rarely made. And homicides were often not solved.

Quickly he showered, letting the hot water beat out any lingering uneasiness or weariness. Not bothering to shave he dressed, grabbing clothes without really looking at them. Grabbed his police badge and his gun. After a quick cup of joe he was on his way.

The place was a mess. Smashed cases. Glass littered the floor as John walked across it. Junk was everywhere. Broken. Cluttered like some hoarder's nightmare. He made his way to the body, weaving past uniformed cops and bright yellow crime scene tape. Past the team of forensic scientists in their dark blue jumpsuit uniforms and shiny silver cases. "Robbery gone bad?" he asked.

A policeman turned to him. A blond man, with very short hair and glasses. "Looks like it, detective. Body's the owner. David Marcus. Perp's over there." He jerked a thumb towards a man who was being handcuffed. "Steven Caldwell, ex-military. Claims he didn't do it. He was just looking for something."

"Aren't we all," John noted. He glanced at the bald man. He was irate, but docile enough now. Hands cuffed behind his back. Clothing nondescript, gray t-shirt and jeans. Boots. "You got the perp? Then why the hell am I here?" he wondered aloud.

"That." The cop pointed towards the mess on the floor. "Captain said it was right up your alley."

"Great. What am I, Mulder now?" John complained. He moved to the body. Squatted to view the dead man. Blood was splattered all around the corpse. Two gunshots to the head. The skull was shattered in the back, leaking brains in a ghastly river. It was a messy killing. Not professional. But what drew John's attention were the marks on the chest. The shirt was ripped open to reveal an almost shrunken, concave torso. Odd indentations, circular patterns on the taut flesh. He swallowed, staring.

This victim resembled the body that had been discovered in that excavation site. Except this one wasn't as drained. Had not been exsanguinated of all bodily fluids to the point of being nothing more than a papery corpse. John's gaze traveled up to the man's face. It was thinner. Marcus appeared older, as if he had aged fifteen years in a day. Wrinkles lined his sallow skin. Grey hairs proliferated in his close-cropped black hair. John looked back at the chest. At the telling marks. A copycat? But then why shoot the guy? Had the criminal been interrupted and had been forced to make a quick ending of the hapless pawnshop owner?

He stood, making room for the ME. Doctor DeMouy gave him a shrug, a smile, as she set to work. Gesturing for her assistants to join her in the examination of the corpse. John moved to the pile of haphazard debris. It was a random collection of junk. The typical detritus of a pawn shop. Jewelry. Guitars. Electronic devices of all kinds, televisions, VCRs, DVD players, even old computers. Baseball cards galore. Books and old bones, coins and old signs. Even a ancient video game console and a pinball machine.

John squatted. There was a curved bone, highly polished and brown. It reminded him of a sabertooth cat's canine. He frowned, recalling Moira O'Meara's despair over the looting of prehistoric artifacts. He shrugged. He was about to make a sarcastic comment when he spotted it amid the smashed debris and trash. Among the piles of porn magazines and model trains.

A make-up kit.

It was smashed like everything else in the shop, but it triggered something. A spark of memory. They have to apply make-up to blend into society. John stared at the oozing flesh-colored liquids. The eye pencils. The empty contact case. The pigments of human flesh and the brushes to blend them. A black case full of the ingredients to appear human. To appear normal.

"Detective? Detective Sheppard?"

John stood. "Yeah?"

"It wasn't a robbery. Till's full of cash. Safe in the back is untouched."

"Oh, it was a robbery. They just didn't get what they...ah." He turned, moved to Steven. "What did you want? No, what did they want?"

"I'm telling you, detective, he was like that when I got here. I tried to resuscitate him but it was too late. I'm the one who called you guys."

John glanced at the blood on the man's t-shirt. Met his gaze. "That's not what I asked you. What did you want?"

"It's nothing. A watch. I had to pawn it last month when I was running short. I came here to buy it back when I found this." He shrugged a shoulder to indicate the disaster around him. "It has sentimental value for me. But the bastard must have sold it because I couldn't find it."

"Sentimental value?" John scoffed. Clearly not believing a word. "Yeah, right. I can just tell you're the sentimental type." He turned. "Get a full inventory of this place. What's on the books and off them. Check it against the receipts. If Marcus was one thing he was meticulous in his bookkeeping. And get this joker to the station for further questioning."

"What? I told you, I didn't–"

"Save it for later!" John moved back to the body as Steven was hauled out of the store. "Doc? TOD?"

"Two hours ago. Shots are point blank range, but..."

"Oh oh. But?"

"But there are some anomalies. Those wounds. Like the last victim. I'm sure you noticed. I'll know more when I get him on my table. This time we have more viable tissue to test. He's not as drained as the other one. It's a fresh kill, John. Do you have any idea what's going on?"

"No. Not yet. Whoa!" He pivoted on his heels, heading off the forensic team as they were taking their leave. "Bag that. That make-up kit over there."

"Detective? Why?"

"It could prove to be important. Dust for prints and any DNA trace evidence. Just do it," he snarled, silencing the scientist's protest. The man nodded, scurried over and carefully bagged the smashed kit.

John moved back to the wreckage of debris. Knelt and quickly snatched the sabertooth from the floor. Pocketed it, without really knowing why. He turned, watched the body being carried out by four men, as there was no room to roll a gurney into the store. Doctor DeMouy followed, directing them with quiet tones. A silence fell over the crime scene as it was being evacuated. John looked round at the debris again. Something wasn't tracking, and he couldn't quite work it out. A robbery that wasn't. A murder that was something else.

His headache was returning. He scowled, rubbing his temple.

Wishing he had a drink.


	2. Chapter 2

Vegas Blues: I Walk the Line2

"_I know the future. Come inside."_

John blinked, shook his head. The odd voice in his head coming out of nowhere. He brushed it off, an aftershock from his disjointed nightmare of the previous evening. He sat at his desk. Staring at the screen. He had run a few more names. Richard Woolsey. Rodney McKay. Pasts unremarkable. Until a huge blank appeared over five years and virtually erased them from any record. From every record. Until a classified warning banned John from going further into their lives. He hated that. It made him suspicious. Curious.

He stood. Made his way downstairs to the morgue. Once more the coolness hit him as the double doors swung apart as the touch of his hand. The sting of antiseptic couldn't quite cover the smell of decay, of death. He was about to speak when a woman turned to him. Raised her gloved hand in warning. He stared. She was petite, blond, wearing a mask over her mouth and nose. Garish blue eyeshadow gleamed above her eyes as she looked at him. "You again?" he muttered, recognizing her, but he couldn't quite place from where, or when.

"Detective, we have a possible contagion here," Jennifer Keller informed, seemingly startled by his semi-recognition of her. Her voice was still whiny even behind the mask. "I was called in to assist Doctor DeMouy.

"Since when does DeMouy ever need assistance?" John inquired, suspicious. He glanced past her to the body. A Y incision had been sewn up without the extraction of any organs that John could see. The victim's clothes were in a messy pile instead of being in the forensics lab being tested.

"Everyone has been sent to the hospital for immediate evaluation. That includes you, I'm afraid."

"A virus?" he asked. Unimpressed. He crossed his arms in front of his chest. Immovable. "What did Doctor DeMouy find?"

"The same as me. She was going to call the CDC but I don't think we need to go that far. Not yet. I'll make the call if I deem it necessary."

Her arrogant demeanor irritated him. "I see. Is it contagious?"

"No. At least not now, but we need to be sure. Detective, please, you need to be tested."

John ignored her. He stepped round the table, eying the body. Grabbed a clipboard and read through the ME's notes. "DeMouy found an unusual element in the tissues. The bloodstream. But it's not that. The vic somehow came in contact with a foreign but organic substance, possibly from the perp or from some object he was given. Makes sense." He set the clipboard on the table.

"Yes, a tactile pathogen, or airborne. That's why we need everyone on the squad to be tested, including you."

"Is that what killed him? What created those marks on his chest? What prematurely aged him? Getting shot was a little overkill, wasn't it? Unless someone was trying to cover up something."

"Don't be ridiculous! Cover up what, exactly?" she asked, too quickly. Seemed to quail under his steady, steady gaze. She turned back to the body, hands fluttering over it. Nearly overturning a tray full of scalpels and other grim instruments. "Please, detective. Go to the hospital and be tested. We need to be sure there isn't an active contagion here. I can finish this."

"Can you?" he asked. The doubt in his voice obvious. "Leave it for DeMouy. This is her house, after all. Not yours. What was your name again?"

"Keller. Doctor Jennifer Keller."

"Ah. Fresh out of medical school, I take it."

She whirled, anger on her face. She pulled down the mask to reveal her youthful face. "I am a fully qualified–"

"Yeah, whatever. I've got socks older than you. I'll confer with DeMouy, if you don't mind. Or even if you do. At the hospital." He sneered, turned and exited the morgue before Jennifer could think of a reply.

DeMouy was shaking her head, haranguing a nurse who was rolling her eyes at her. A pretty woman with curling auburn hair that lay attractively against her mint green scrubs. "No! I am telling you, I need to get back to my morgue before that child destroys valuable evidence. There is no contagion! But yes, that man did die from something."

"From what, De Mouy?" John asked, walking to them. He glanced at the nurse who smiled at him. Her eyes filled with warmth.

"I don't know yet, John. But she barges in with a couple of men and takes over! And they're not from the CDC. I checked! We have two possibly unrelated incidents, John, blending together. Two causes of death, maybe even three. One viral. One ballistic. And one involving those wounds in some way, although I don't think that's what killed him. Only weakened him. They interrupted my autopsy!"

"Calm down, doctor. We'll get to the bottom of it. You've got your notes, right?" The Asian woman nodded. "Okay, then. You can go from there until you get back to the vic." He looked round, voice lowering. "Is there a real possibility of a contagion, a virus, or is this a ruse just to get us all out of there?"

DeMouy frowned, considering. "No. I mean there was a viral infection in the tissues. Which could be contagious but I don't think it is anymore. It's inert. Why would someone want to empty out the precinct?"

John shrugged. Having no answer. Vague suspicions filled his mind. He tried to remember why Jennifer had been in the morgue that first time, but it was a blank. Like so much of his life before the drive-by shooting. Or whatever had happened to him.

"This way, John." The nurse took his arm, leading him to a room. "Everyone is being tested, just to be safe. So far everyone is fine. A precaution, that's all. Are you feeling all right? You don't look so good." Her gaze traversed his long, lean form. His haggard appearance. The sloppy clothes were nothing new. A wrinkled pale blue shirt under a dark jacket. Wrinkled dark pants. But he appeared weary, troubled. More than usual.

"The headaches," he explained, squinting at the bright, bright lights of the hospital. "I've been having trouble sleeping again. I need something stronger than aspirin again, Molly. Okay?" He touched her arm. Ran his fingers along her skin. Knew the affect he had on her. Used it blatantly to get what he wanted.

Molly frowned, guiding him into a room. "Okay, but this is the last time, John. You need to see a doctor and get a proper prescription, all right? Wait here. The tech will be in to scan you and take some blood for a test. Since everyone is all right it will be quick and you won't have to strip."

"That's a nice change," he noted. Causing her to smile at him.

"I'll get those pills for you."

"Thanks."

She stood in the doorway, watching him. "John...are you ever going to call me?"

He shrugged. Suddenly uncomfortable. "Yeah, sure. Once I catch a break between cases. Sure."

She eyed him. Wanting to believe him. Knowing better. But that little spark of hope, that little flare of attraction between them made her believe his words. His assurances. "All right. I'll get the pills," she repeated.

John nodded. As she left he sighed heavily. Trying to find a balance was difficult. To keep a good relationship with her when he needed information or medicine off the books. Keeping her interested without really giving her anything. Leading her on to a point but going no farther. Was it any wonder he preferred the straight, no-frills commerce of prostitutes?

He stared round the room. It was a quiet shade of yellow. He sat in the chair, ignoring the examination table. The various instruments scattered on the sink behind it. He rubbed his temple. The headache was ever present, a quiet pressure that would bloom into pain if provoked. He sighed again. Wishing he had a drink. But not of water.

Jennifer was shaking her head. Furious. "He dismisses me as if I was nothing more than a, a student! I am fully qualified, damn it! You told me to take charge of this investigation and I have! You told me to confiscate all the evidence and I have! Now we are moving the body to our own labs but I feel like a little kid who will be caught stealing from the cookie jar!"

Rodney McKay smiled at his wife. Walked over and slid his arms around her. "Will I have to spank you, then, for being naughty?"

"Rodney!" she flared. Blushing.

He smiled. "It will be fine. DeMouy will see the official papers from the FBI and even from the CDC. She won't be able to do a damn thing. We'll bury it all like we did with the last ones. But I need to know if there's another one loose, Jenny. If this is a Wraith or something else."

"Okay. And what about Sheppard? He's like a damn thorn!"

"Yes, that he is. Don't worry. I'll handle him too."

"I think you should listen to Woolsey. Leave him out of it. We don't need him. He could be dangerous, Rodney! He could ruin everything!" Her hands fluttered on his chest. Needing reassurance.

"He'll be fine. In some weird way I do trust him. I don't know why. He's good. Damn good when he puts his mind to it. When he's not distracted by other things."

"Like what? Gambling debts?" she sniffed.

"And other things. This is Vegas, after all. Get to work. I should go intercept him before he comes charging back here to find the body gone."

Jennifer sighed as her husband freed her. Left the morgue with quick steps. She looked back at the body. "Fine. I still don't like him," she muttered to the dead body.

The dead body had no reply.


	3. Chapter 3

Vegas Blues: I Walk the Line3

"_The harvest moon is rising. Wraith are never ending."_

He lies on the desert sand. The sun beats down on him. Merciless. But not as hotly as the explosion that ripped the silver bullet trailer into pieces. Obliterated it and everything in the immediate vicinity. Stabbed a deep hole into the earth. He can feel the fire even now, as he lays sprawled on the ground. He can feel the life bleeding out of him. It hurts. The bullets are still in him, tearing flesh and muscle. He can feel his life seeping onto the hard desert sand beneath him as he gazes forlornly at the hot ball of sun above him...

"Detective? Detective Sheppard? John!"

John blinked. Roused out of his reverie. The memories so vivid he half-expected to find himself sprawled on the desert, dying. He touched his chest where the scars remained from the drive-by shooting. Except that wasn't what had happened. His memory had nothing to do with anything like that. He was certain now. He scowled, hating to be caught off-guard. "What?" he rasped. Voice raw, as if he had been out in the desert.

"It seems we meet again, detective."

John stared. Recognized. He moved to his feet off the bench in the hallway. He had been waiting for his pills after receiving a clean bill of health. "Rodney McKay. Right?" He eyed the shorter man in the dark suit. The dark blue shirt and light blue tie. The shiny black shoes.

"Yes."

"What do you want?"

"Another loose end, I'm afraid. The pawn shop." John was silent. "You already knew that, didn't you? You saw the body. The marks. There were things taken from the shop." John was still silent. Inscrutable. "What do you want me to say, detective?"

"Are you confessing to the murder?" John asked at last.

Rodney smiled. "No. We've scoured the place already. Couldn't find what we were looking for. This is what is missing. Why the proprietor was killed." He held out a photograph. John took it. "If you happen to find it, please call me. It's rather dangerous, if it falls into the wrong hands. I can't explain further. And no, you haven't already collected it. We checked the evidence you took from the scene and it isn't there."

John glanced at the photograph. Back to Rodney. The picture was unremarkable. A black box, octagonal in shape, small in size. Something was growing on one corner, mold or bacteria. Or fungus. He didn't know, couldn't tell, didn't care. "Is this thing carrying the virus?"

Rodney paused. Surprised at the detective's insight. "How did you..." John smiled. "Of course. Doctor DeMouy. You just filled in the blanks. "No. It's a carrier, but not the original source of the contagion."

"A viral pathogen that is organic but not contagious after its brief incubation period."

"How did you..."

"We're not as in the dark as you might like, Mr. McKay."

"Doctor McKay, actually," Rodney corrected. "And no, you're not. That's unfortunate."

"Makes it harder to cover up, doesn't it?"

"That it does. Tell me, detective, how are those memories coming along?"

John frowned. "Piece by piece. This thing...what is it, and how important is it that you find it?"

"It's important that you find it, John."

"Care to be any more enigmatic, Rodney?"

Rodney chuckled. "I have faith in you, John. Always have. Good luck." He started to leave.

"Hey!" John called after him. "Did I say I was gonna even look for it? Hey! You don't get it, do you? I'm a homicide detective, not some fucking errand boy! Hey!"

"John? Here."

The gentle, female voice drew him to see Molly eying him, all concerned. She handed him a vial of pills which he quickly secreted into his jacket's pocket. "Thanks, Moll. I owe you. We'll have dinner some time." He began to leave, crumpling the photo in his fist.

"John? So you'll call me? John? At least tweet me? John?"

"Yeah, sure, whatever, sure," he said absently. Paused by the array of papers on a table. Glared at the lurid tabloid. The screaming headline VEGAS VAMPIRE ON THE LOOSE! SECOND VICTIM DRAINED DRY! He snatched the paper, seeing the byline. "Son of a bitch!" he muttered under his breath. Needing a victim on which to vent his frustration, his anger.

The paper was flung onto a very cluttered desk in a tacky newsroom. "What the hell is this?"

The reporter smiled at the irate detective. "You saw my story? Excellent! This is news! Care to make an official comment, detective?"

John glowered at the other man. The fresh, open face. The sandy hair combed to one side. "No, this is sensationalism! Nothing more, Chuck. Who is your source?"

Chuck Campbell shrugged. "Now you know I can't reveal that. Since you are here anyway why not take the opportunity to set the record straight. How are these recent murders similar to the ones enacted over six months ago? The MO is mostly the same, isn't it? Almost total exsanguination of all bodily fluids, plus a rapid and inexplicable aging of the victims. Those cases went cold, didn't they? Went unsolved, but now we have two more. Is that serial killer still on the loose, detective, or is this some sick copycat murderer? Care to comment?" Chuck held up his digital recorder.

John glared. "Get that thing out of my face!"

"Sure." Chuck lowered it. " I can go old school." He grabbed a pen and a pad of paper. "The Vegas Vampire is still at large, terrorizing the city and it's inhabitants. The public is going to eat this up!" The glee shone on his face.

"Don't care." John planted his palms on the desk, leaning towards the excited journalist. "I want to know who is leaking information from an ongoing police investigation! Tell me now or I will haul your ass downtown and throw you into a cell for aiding and abetting!"

Chuck was unfazed. "No, you won't, detective. First amendment. But I will tell you this." His voice lowered, full of confidences. "Whatever happened six months ago and was swept under the carpet...it looks like it's happening again. A serial killer or a copycat, I don't know. That's your department, not mine. What I do know is there is some weird shit going down around here. I mean even weird by Vegas standards. I could make it worth your while, detective, to keep me in the loop. If you know what I mean."

John knew exactly what he meant. "Shut up!" he snarled. "Shut this down now or I will have you in a cell for spreading panic and for libel!"

Chuck watched the detective stalk out of the office. He stood. Waved the paper like a banner. "You know you can't do that, detective! My offer stands! You want me on this! You want the facts, right? I'm your man! Chuck Campbell, ace reporter!"

John ignored him. Furious. Doused in the glorious sunlight he quickly donned his shades. Saw someone loitering by his car. Using a crowbar to try to pry into the trunk although the car could be broken into easily enough. John strode towards it. "Hey!"

The person spun to face him. John stared. The eerie white face was familiar, but obviously painted, not real. The long hair a wig. The eyes were human and John knew it wasn't one of those creatures but some kind of sick copycat. The guy whirled and ran.

"Hey! Stop! Stop right there! LVPD!" John shouted, sprinting after him. He ran after the guy as he dodged around parked cars. Down a sidewalk scattering pedestrians. Down an alley cluttered with litter and junk and bulging trash bags. John swerved past dumpsters, leapt over piles of trash, dodged low-hanging gutters, all the while keeping his eyes on the fleeing figure ahead of him. A lithe, agile man. Wig flying out like a banner. "Stop or I'll shoot!" John shouted. Fired anyway.

The bullet hit the fleeing suspect's shoulder. He staggered, kept running. John followed. Found himself at the back entrance to a casino. "Stop! Stop that guy!" he bellowed as patrons screamed. The suspect ran through the casino. Coins flew in every direction, flung from buckets and patrons. Security was rushing to intercept. John flashed his badge, never losing stride. "Move! Get out of the way! LVPD, damn it!"

John holstered his gun. Slammed into the guy. They fell heavily and crashed into a slot machine. The wheels spun and three sevens aligned. The machine began to go crazy, shrieking a happy tone and dinging, lights flashing as endless coins were spilling out of it into the tray. Both looked up from the floor, startled. Pleased. The coins were spilling out of the tray now, a veritable jackpot.

"Can we keep that?" the suspect asked.

"Funny. On your feet!" John stood, hauled the younger man off the floor. Cuffed him, trapping his wrists behind his back. "Thanks for your help," he sardonically noted as the security men finally reached them. John shook his head, looked past to see policemen rushing towards them as well. The flashing red and blue lights outside the casino's front entrance.

"You saw him, didn't you?" the suspect asked. Voice hushed in awe.

"Saw who? What's your name, kid?" John fished for a wallet, found none.

The younger man looked over his shoulder at John. "You saw him! The god among us!" His blue eyes were shining with a religious fervor, or madness.

John sighed. "Wonderful. What did you want with my car?"

The suspect merely smiled.


	4. Chapter 4

Vegas Blues: I Walk the Line4

"_No rain. No water. Dry as a desert. Dirt is all around."_

John blinked. He had heard the words in that oddly melodic voice, but the suspect in front of him was saying them. Almost as a prayer or invocation. "Come again?"

"You've seen him too! You hear his voice in the middle of the night, calling like an angel's or a god's to summon us! The visitor! The one who draws life but can also return life! He talks to me in my dreams. The other one. Says he knows my future. Says he can guide me to–"

"Book him!" John ordered, shoving the suspect to the waiting cops. "Find out who he is and what he is." John's shot has just grazed the kid's shoulder. The bleeding slowing to a trickle.

John followed the cops out of the casino. Moved to his car. Stepped round to examine the trunk. It was dented, but not opened. The crowbar was on the street. John snatched it, tossed it into the backseat and got into the front seat. He sat a moment, rubbing his temples. The sun was scorching. A ball of pure heat in the pale blue sky. He flipped on the air conditioner. It sputtered. He flicked on the radio. Static made the song _Devil With a Blue Dress_ incomprehensible. With a sigh he headed for the precinct.

John sat in the interrogation room. Cool air wafted from a ceiling fan, from the vents in the wall. He folded his hands together on top of a manila folder. Eyed the younger man sitting across from him. Make-up removed and wig taken he was even younger than John had thought. Pimples dotted his chin. Pale blond hair was cut short. Shorn on one side like a failed attempt at a buzz-cut. A sloppy tattoo on one cheek, but the blue ink was runny. "Tobin Hayes. Highschool drop-out. Unemployed. A long criminal record, though. Burglary, grand theft auto, vandalism, it goes on and on. Until one day, what? You found religion? You found a cult?"

"He had to die," Hayes said, face serene. Eyes shining.

"Who? The pawn shop owner? Is this a confession to the murder of David Marcus?" John slid a pad of paper, a pen towards the suspect. He glanced at the camera filming the interrogation.

"He was an unbeliever. He did not understand. Not like we do. He would not give me the device. And I was told it was there. I was told to retrieve it. That it was important. Like the others."

John was studying the suspect. "You are confessing, then. To the murder of David Marcus. What others? Other devices?"

Hayes smiled. "You know. The other things taken from the god. The other gifts. The gifts that came beyond the stars. They tried to destroy all of them but some cannot be destroyed. I found a few. Some odd pieces and he led me to the rest. He will teach me how to put them together."

"I see. Who told you all of this?"

"The god, of course."

"Does this god have a name?" John asked. He hated dealing with nut jobs. The confession to murder had been clear enough, would stand up in court but the rest was gibberish that could harm the case, or worse get Hayes off on an insanity plea. John hated insanity pleas.

"His name is beyond the stars...but the ones who hold him captive call him Todd."

"Todd? Todd the god?" John queried, sneering. He glanced at the camera, could imagine the hilarity behind the two-way glass at his back. "Great, just great. Why do the really crazy ones always end up in Vegas?" he muttered. "What else did this Todd the god tell you?"

Hayes smiled. His eyes gleamed with fanaticism. He leaned forward on the table. John did the same. "He knows the future. He knows you, John Sheppard. He told me about you. How your fates are intertwined. How his kind are coming. How they will traverse the stars and enter the rift. They will come to their new feeding ground and reward the faithful with long life and wealth. Sheppard..." his voice fell low, rasping in his throat, "there's another one out there." A fit of coughing blocked whatever else he was going to say.

John leaned back, away from him. "Enough of this bullshit!" He stood. "We got the confession. He can write it up. Take him to his cell." His last words were disturbing. Impossible.

The door opened and a policeman entered. "Do you know this guy?"

"Hell no."

"Are you sure?" Captain Hendricks entered, gestured. The coughing Hayes was helped to his feet and directed out of the room. "Can you believe this guy? Spouting such rubbish, about gods and aliens, no less! Probably thinks a real spacecraft did crash in Area 51."

"Yeah, a real nut job," John agreed, but he was rattled. Memories were almost to the surface, but faded too quickly. The two men exited the room. "There's still that other guy. Caldwell? He's involved in this somehow."

"He's still in holding. But with this confession he'll be cleared. Maybe he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, like he said."

"No. He's involved. He knows something," John insisted. He couldn't shake the suspicion. He slid his hand into his pocket. Fingered the sabertooth hidden there. The polished bone was cool to the touch. Smooth. Comforting. It made him think of the paleontologist he had met. Moira O'Meara. He withdrew his hand. "There's more here, cap. I'm going to cross-check those inventory reports."

"Waste of time, Sheppard. Whatever Hayes wanted was probably off the books. Caldwell's story holds up. He's got a clean record, but we're holding him for a while longer anyway. Hey, haven't you got that charity thing to get to today? You did volunteer, after all."

"I did? Oh crap, I did," John remembered. Frowned. "Hold that guy until I get back. I want to talk to him myself. Anything else?"

Hendricks handed him a set of keys. "Storage shed. We found the keys on Hayes. Check it out. See if you can find this Holy Grail that Todd the god sent the kid to find." He shook his head. "It's probably a stack of comic books or a load of junk to build a spaceship to take him to the mother ship." He laughed.

John smiled. "You're probably right, cap. Wackos."

"Don't worry about forensics. They'll be on their way as well. And don't forget about the charity event. You are always late to it."

"Yeah...that's my style. Going."

John stood looking at the storage shed. It was one of dozens lined up in a row under the blazing sun. Gray buildings with incongruous orange roofs and similar padlocks. He grabbed the lock. Tried key after key after key until finally one turned and the lock opened at his tug. He hauled up the door with a grunt. Swearing as the hot metal burnt his fingers.

He stepped into the shadows, procuring a flashlight and shining it round the building. He scowled. It was empty. Warm as an oven and empty. "Shit," he said to no one. He walked into the shed, light scaling the walls. Hitting empty boxes, a makeshift bed as if Hayes had been living in here. Or someone had been. Rotten food made him grimace. Newspaper clippings lined one wall, had been hidden from his view. He walked over to them, the heat of the shed suffocating. Flicked the light over them.

Articles about the past murders. The case he couldn't remember. Salacious headlines about the Vegas vampire. Grainy pictures from the tabloid showing drained corpses. The events of six months ago played out in tabloid form. John studied them, but couldn't remember anything. The words were meaningless, the pictures gruesome but did not trigger a memory. Just like the files he had. The past was locked away in his mind and he couldn't access it except in pieces.

Most of the articles were by Chuck Campbell and John frowned. Not surprised. Most of the accounts were sensational, grandiose examples of yellow journalism, but a few actual facts were filtered into the articles. Facts that John recognized from his own files of the cases. Details that had never been revealed to the press he was sure.

Hearing a noise he stood, turning, and his shoe hit a box. A thud. Something solid was in there. Recognizing the forensics team he turned back to the box. Squatted and opened it. Stared as he shone his light upon its contents. It was a small, white device. It resembled a Gameboy and John lifted it out of the box. Curious. Instantly it emitted a soft hum and came to life, as if he had somehow hit the on button. Little lights blinked. Were moving on the screen. John's brow furrowed as he tried to make sense of it. The object wasn't the one that Rodney wanted him to find, but it was something. Something he couldn't identify.

"Detective? Anything?"

John quickly slipped the device into his pocket, stood. Shone his light at the forensic crew who were entering the shed. "No. Nothing but trash and more trash. It's been cleaned out already. Oh. And that." His light streamed across the floor to the makeshift bed where a gun lay. "I bet that's the murder weapon. Bag it." He checked his watch.

"Crap. I'm late again."

He wondered if he had time to change clothes before making his way to the hotel.


	5. Chapter 5

Vegas Blues: I Walk the Line5

"_Defiance tastes like life itself..."_

John sat at the round table surrounded by women. Not an unusual event in itself, but not comprised of what he could charitably call his dream team. It was a charitable event, however. More to the point it was easy cash. A reaching out to the community, and as long as John got his cut of the ticket sales he didn't mind so much who came to his table to meet an actual detective. To ask him about his work. He was always late to these events, either by accident or design, but no one seemed to mind.

The squad all thought it was hilarious. How his table was always populated by women. Usually the same women every single time. John found himself recognizing some of them. He wasn't sure if that was good thing or a bad thing. Comforting or alarming. The one with the short, short hair and the Eastern accent. The one with the limping gait who knew more technical terminology than even he did. The one with curly hair who would make a comment or two. A few were very quiet, would just sit and stare and smile at him. Quiet gazes drinking all of him in, every motion.

Hanging on every word, every pause.

Sometimes there would be a loudmouth who would not stop talking and even interrupt John when he was trying to answer a question. She wasn't one of the regular ones and he quickly, politely and efficiently put her into her place. Then with a smile turned to answer a question from one his regulars who was always polite. Would even affect an accent to charm her.

Sometimes they would bring him things. Gifts of appreciation or bribery, possibly both. Bottles of Scotch were his absolute favorite, or any kind of alcoholic beverage. Then there was the plain one. The one who always dressed in the same color scheme. The one with long hair. When she sat next to him he felt completely comfortable, unlike some of the others who made him slightly nervous and a tad more fidgety than normal. She would bring him things too, but things which she had made. Creative gifts that took into account certain hobbies or interests of his.

He didn't quite know what to make of this, or what to do with the select items. Interesting and clever as they were. He could tell a lot of thought and work had gone into each one, and patiently listened to her stammering, repetitive explanations as she pointed out the little details in case he would miss them. In fact he had started looking for the little details because of this.

He found these events surreal, at times. Part of him wondering why anyone would want to see him or want to talk to him in the first place. Some of his colleagues he found to be full of themselves, or worse, just boring. There were a few he would meet whom he liked, with whom he wouldn't have minded working with if the right case came along. One who enjoyed talking about food, and just generally talking. One who was very funny and affected an accent that charmed the audience, making them putty in his hands.

John was always surprised at the number of people attending these events, and the sheer scope of the organization it took to have it run smoothly. Mostly it did, but now and then there was the occasional hiccup. The worst part was when he had to give a talk on stage. He was more comfortable now but had at first dreaded every second of it. Instead of a stream of exposition he preferred to take questions from the audience. It made the time go faster and he had to talk less. Plus some of the questions were quite clever or humorous.

There was easy money to be made, however, and normally the events were casual, relaxed, and even fun on occasion. He found himself enjoying them sometimes. Mostly, though, he just sat through them, endured them and took his cut of the money and ran.

John looked over at one of the organizers. The robust man was nodding, indicating that the allotted time was up. John always found it amusing that such a large, hirsute man was his chaperone cum bodyguard cum minder to keep him on schedule. As if he couldn't handle himself if one of these women were to suddenly fling themselves at him. Although considering the girth of some of them in the audience he could envision needing some added security. He snorted at the thought. Was about to make an apology when his phone vibrated.

"Sorry," he said, checking it as he procured it from his pocket. A text message. **Payment due.** John stared, uncomprehending for a moment. Then he stood, so abruptly he bumped the table.

"Is there a problem?" one of the women asked.

He eyed them, stuffing his phone back into his pocket. "Yeah. A case I'm working on. Sorry, ladies, but I have to go. I'll see you next time, right?" He smiled at the chorus of assents around the table. He moved to the chaperone. "And I'll be needing that money now before I go," he said in a low voice. As if reluctant to break the illusion of his motives for doing these events.

"Now? Detective, you know our policy is to–"

"Now. I won't be coming back because there's a break in this case."

"All right, then, just this once, I guess. This way."

John entered the casino. Glanced at the obvious security goons watching. Suspicious, narrow gazes and pug noses reminding him of Gamorrean guards. In fact the casino did resemble Jabba the Hutt's palace in many ways. Music was playing, a jaunty tune that could scarcely be heard over the noise of slot machines. Scantily clad women pole dancing. Hired guns discreet in the shadows. It was just like Jabba's palace. Especially with the giant slug at the top of the organization.

John smiled at the comparison. Hoped the Force was with him as he made his way past row after row of slot machines. Their constant jangling a background noise. It wasn't those but the card tables that made his fingers itch, his palms sweaty. The expanse of smooth velvet on which cards and chips were accumulating and receding like a game of musical chairs as fortune waxed and waned. Roulette wheels were spinning. Waitresses passed him, offering drinks. Their scantily clad forms advertising other wares on offer. Everything was for sale in Vegas.

He ignored it all. Climbed the stairs to the higher echelons. Where the serious games were played, for serious money. Big whales hooked into ever increasing stakes. The scents of cigar smoke and Scotch wafted on the cool air. Luring him down the hallway. At the door he stood, arms outstretched, legs apart as he was frisked by another goon.

Satisfied he was unarmed John was gestured down yet another hallway. The thick carpet muffled his footsteps. The hall was lined with mirrors. Out of the corner of his eye John saw himself on either side keeping pace with himself. A doppelganger or a past life walking with him, having the same intent of purpose, the same grim determination. The same errand. A few showgirls passed him, giggling. All sparkles and spandex and glitter. He ignored them.

He strode into the room, past intense card games where chips were piled like towers. To a round table where several men sat. Clad in suits with loosened ties and opened vests. Gold glittering on their stubby fingers and encircling their fat wrists. The air was pungent with smoke and booze and chips and the stench of expensive cologne. To John it smelled familiar. Like heaven, almost, at least when he was winning. Like hell when he was losing, which was way too often these days.

The gambling halted as he stopped in front of the table. The dealer paused, cards frozen in his hands. Chips unmoving in their multi-colored stacks. John pulled out a wad of cash from his jacket pocket. Nice, neat bills all stacked and sealed with a rubber band. He tossed it onto the table towards the fattest of the group. "Other half, Mikey. Call off your goons."

The men eyed the pile of cash. Mikey grabbed it with one pudgy hand. Flipped through it.

"It's all there," John informed.

"Even the interest?"

"Yes."

"And the late fee?" He laughed at John's expression. "I'm just pulling yer leg, Sheppard! You are one of my best customers! I'm glad you saw the light." He set the money aside, as if it meant nothing to him. "Now that we're square pull up a chair, why dontcha? I'll give you a chance to win this all back, plus more. Although you are one of the most consistent losers I've ever had the pleasure of doing business with." The men laughed.

"No thanks," John said through gritted teeth. "We're square now. I'm done."

"Done?" Mikey snorted. "You? That'll never happen. I'll call off my enforcers. Sure you don't wanna play a hand?" He gestured at the table, the cards, the chips. As if offering food to a starving man. Or drugs to an addict. "Maybe your luck will change, Sheppard."

John considered. He took hold of a bottle of Scotch on the table. It was the good stuff, old and very, very expensive. A drink he could never afford. He drank a generous amount. Set the bottle back onto the table as he swallowed. "It just did. Thanks for the drink." He turned to leave before temptation overrode his resolve.

Mikey guffawed. "You'll be back, Sheppard! You won't be able to help yourself! Hey, where did you get this kind of money anyway? You holding out on me, buddy?"

"None of your damn business," John snarled over his shoulder.

"Okay, okay, don't get so touchy!" Mikey called. "You'll be back, Sheppard! Your kind always comes back. It's an addiction, you know. A disease! I'll deal you in right now, first stake is on me! Come on, Sheppard! You know you wanna! You know you'll be owing Mikey Sheridan again! It's in your DNA!" The men laughed uproariously.

John clenched his hands into fists, containing his anger. Fighting the urge to whirl and to punch the overweight hustler in the nose. His phone vibrated. He ignored it until he was clear of the casino, was standing in the hot sun and hotter air of the street. He eyed it. Another text message. This time it really was from work. Two terse words that sent him sprinting for his car.

**Hayes dead.**


	6. Chapter 6

Vegas Blues: I Walk the Line6

"_There must be some other reason for your existence."_

John hastened into the precinct, heading for the holding cells and nearly collided with the gurney being rolled out of one. He pressed himself to the wall to let it pass. A blanket was covering the body, but seeing the shock of pale blond hair he knew it was Hayes. "Hold up!" The men stopped. John pulled back the blanket. Hayes's sallow face was staring up at nothing. Blue eyes filming over as death's cold shroud sealed him. There was a sickly dribble shining at one corner of his mouth. John covered the face, wiped his hand on his pants. "Cause?"

"We don't know yet. The ME's already cleared him for any possible contagion," one of the medics said. "Looks like that virus again. It's got a very short but intense incubation period. Cell's clear and–"

"Hold up." Something nagged at John. He uncovered the face again. Stared at the scrawny neck. The angle wasn't right. It was subtle, but there. As if a vertebrae was slightly out of whack. "Didn't you notice this?" He pointed. Glanced at the medic's name badge. "How long have you been practicing, Arquette?"

Arquette met his gaze, affronted by the question. "Long enough, detective. That is probably from the fall. He had a violent coughing fit and then fell against the bars."

"That wouldn't break his neck. Make sure DeMouy takes note of that, but she probably will." John gestured and they wheeled the body down the hallway. He shook his head. He knew that injury was no accident, but deliberate. Had been inflicted upon the hapless kid. Would more than likely be the cause of death. The question was who would want the kid dead? John had a suspicion. He headed up the hallway to the desk. "Hey, Ash, what cell is Caldwell being–"

"He's being released, Sheppard," the man answered, not bothering to look up from a pile of paperwork. He was furiously chewing on a piece of gum. Jumped as John slammed his hand on the table, making the pile of reports almost topple.

"What do you mean he's been released?" John flared. "He's still a person of interest in the–"

"His lawyer got him out. Besides, that other guy confessed to the–"

"Yeah, and now he's dead, murdered in his own cell! And I bet you dollars to doughnuts that Caldwell is responsible! He was in the Air Force, has had special forces training! He knows how to kill and make it look like an accident!"

"So do you, Sheppard, but unlike you I do know how to follow orders."

John whirled at the mocking voice. Steven was standing near, taking back his wallet as he was being freed. The words were provoking, but it was the sneer on the other man's face that caused John to lunge at him.

"Break it up! Sheppard! Sheppard!" John was hauled off the other man. "He's got a clean record, damn it! His alibi holds up! You'll be booked for assault!"

"Don't care! He's their cleanup guy!" The pieces were falling into place, and John wasn't about to let any of it go. "Tying up the loose ends, aren't you, Caldwell?" he taunted.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Steven argued, shaking his head. "I'm just the beer delivery guy. See?" He pointed to his t-shirt. The company Pegasus Deliveries was emblazoned across his chest. "Can I get back to work now?"

"Yeah, you're free to go," Ash informed.

John shoved free of the men holding him. Followed. "How do you know about me?"

"Your record? I can't reveal that." Steven turned to the other man as they breached the confines of the precinct and stood on the street. "You really screwed up, Sheppard. What was it? A search and rescue mission? Except you went against orders and got everyone killed. Except yourself. I don't know the exact details but that's enough. They say you had promise. Were a damn good pilot. On the fast track to becoming lieutenant colonel some day. But you were reckless."

"Yeah, they say a lot of things about me. Tell me why a former Air Force pilot who made colonel is now slumming around Vegas making beer deliveries while working on the sly for the government. You're nothing more than a hired goon to clean up after them, aren't you?"

The two men stared at each other. "I've got deliveries to make," Steven finally stated. "I don't have time for this."

"Really? What's next? Who else needs to be eliminated or silenced? What are they hiding, Caldwell? Did another one get loose?" At his words Steven froze in his tracks. John allowed himself a smug smile. Continued. "Or is there some insane copycat running around Vegas? Wouldn't be the first, now would it? Once I remember I will be coming down on all of you like a ton of bricks."

Steven turned to him. Composed once more. "Is that a threat?"

"No. That's a promise."

Steven smiled. "I'll look forward to it."

John watched him leave. Cross the street and climb into his van. The Pegasus Deliveries logo emblazoned in red on the white vehicle.

"What is your beef with that guy?" Ash asked, joining him on the steps. "The case is closed. We got the perp. He even confessed. Got sick and died. The ME will confirm. It's over, Sheppard. Move on, would ya?"

John shook his head. Still watching the van as it pulled slowly into traffic and drove down the street. "No. It's not over. Not by a long shot.

John lounged outside the morgue. Not venturing into the room this time. His head was pounding and he quickly downed some of the pills Molly had given him. Prescription drugs without a prescription. He looked round, needing something to wash them down. Sauntered to a water fountain and leaned, hit the button. Cold water splashed onto his lips, wetting them. Sliding into his mouth as he opened it. The water caught on his tongue, played over his teeth. He swallowed the water. It tasted slightly metallic. It washed away the bitter taste of the pills. Made them slightly more palatable.

Hearing a noise he straightened, tongue flicking over his wet lips to catch any stray drops of water. DeMouy was staring at him. Unabashed admiration stealing over her face, as if seeing him for the first time. It was not something new for John, this almost instant attraction of the opposite sex, but it was new to see the expression on DeMouy's face. "Yeah?"

She blinked. "Um, um...oh! Tox screens." She handed him a report as he walked over to her. "As you can see there's a trace of that virus, but it's not contagious. And it's not what killed him. Although I think it would have."

"If not for having his neck broken." John was perusing the report. "You did see that, right?" At her silence he met her gaze. She was staring at him again. "DeMouy?"

"What? Oh, yes, of course I did, I saw that," she stammered. Took a step backwards as if to ward off her reactions. As if he was emitting some male pheromone that had ensnared her like a fly in a web. "It could have been easily missed. How did you recognize it?"

He ignored the question. "I need a sample of that toxin. I know a guy who might be able to tell us more."

"You do? All right...so far I am stumped. It is not like anything in our database. I'll get it for you. Wait here."

John smirked as she backed away from him, turned and entered the morgue. He sighed. Hoped this would pass, that it wouldn't have an corrosive affect on their working relationship. He schooled his expression into passivity as she returned, handed him the vial.

"This guy...is he above board?" she asked. Sounding more like herself now.

"Yes. Well, mostly. Thanks." Slipping it into his pocket he felt it clunk against the odd device he had found in the storage shed. Had forgotten all about it with the busy events of the day. He climbed the stairs, entered the precinct and headed for his office.

"Hey, Sheppard! How was your day? Did you enjoy your hour with the harem?" Guffaws all round. "How are Shep's girls these days?"

John inwardly winced. Turned to the men who were watching, enjoyment on their faces. "You're just jealous, Webb."

"Of those women? Hardly," he sneered. More laughter.

"Hey! Don't you pick on my girls!" John defended, suddenly angry. Whatever he had needed in his office he could do without. He turned, headed out of the precinct building. Inexplicably pissed and badly, badly needing a drink.

Sometimes he really, really hated being so damn attractive.


	7. Chapter 7

Vegas Blues: I Walk the Line7

"_Don't look now! Oh, keep dreaming."_

John sat at the bar. Downed a Scotch. The darkness was cooler. Was soothing to his throbbing temples. To his infuriated demeanor. The song _Under My Thumb_ was a quiet backdrop. There weren't many people in the establishment and those that were there conversed in quiet voices. He waited, waited. Watching the barmaid make her rounds along the bar, along the few tables where the few patrons sat. At last the pretty woman moved back to him. Re-filled his glass with a smile, a nod. A not so subtle shake of her breasts. "Can I get you anything else, sir?"

John downed the fiery liquid. "Yeah. Beckett around?"

"Yes, in the back, working on the books, or something. I can serve you, honey, don't worry."

"I don't doubt that, but I need to see Beckett."

"I'm not supposed to disturb him when he's back there."

"Why? What's he running? A card game or something sleazier?"

She giggled. "Of course not! He's a doctor, after all! He's busy, is all, honey. Whatever it is can wait, can't it? I'll take care of you until then." She smiled. Leaned to give him a generous view of her bosom as it protruded from the low-cut white blouse she wore.

"Sorry, sugar, but it can't. Wait, that is." He opened his jacket, flashing his badge. "Police business. I need to see him now."

"Oh." She pouted, straightened. All flirting ceasing when he had revealed himself to be a cop. "I'll go get him."

"Sorry, sugar." He watched her leave. The little black skirt hugging her rear. Fishnet stockings lining her long legs down to her black high heels.

"You've been asking for me."

The Scottish voice broke into John's scattered musings. He set down the glass. "Yeah. Detective Sheppard," he introduced as Carson eyed him blankly. "We met a few days back. I was with Moira." The sound of her name filled his ears. Filled his mind. He wished he was with her now. Wished she had been the one who had seen him drinking from the fountain. Wished she had been the one flirting with him at the bar.

"Oh, right. Moira's detective guy. What can I do for you?"

"Besides another drink?" John asked, tapping the glass. Carson Beckett scowled, not amused. Nevertheless he filled the small glass. John downed the contents in one swallow. "I need you to look at this. I need a second opinion." He dug out the vial, handed it to Carson. "A toxin, but harmless now. Deadly, with a quick infection period in the host. A virus."

Carson raised a brow at this peremptory request but took the vial anyway. "A virus, you say?"

"Yes. Inert now. Or so I've been told. It's unlike anything my people have seen."

"Then your people must not be that good, detective."

"Oh, they're good, doc, don't doubt that. But they don't know what this is. The chemical composition is baffling them. They can't identify it."

"Everything can be identified, detective. You just need to know where to look." Carson studied the vial, as if he could determine the contents purely by sight. "And don't call me doc. Why are you coming to me with this?"

"You're a doctor, right?"

"I was a doctor," Carson stressed the verb. Irritated.

"One of the best for the more, shall we say, unusual medical mysteries. Or so Moira implied. I just need you to take a look at this and see if you can give me a chemical analysis. At the very least tell me what the hell it is. Apart from being a virus. And keep it quiet."

"I see." Carson placed the vial into his pocket. Eyed the other man. "Quiet will cost you extra."

"What? You didn't charge us before for your–"

"I didn't charge Moira before," Carson clarified. "You're a different story altogether, Sheppard."

John frowned. "Fine, Beckett. Extra. I forgot that everyone has a price in Vegas."

"Not everyone, detective, but I can't run this place solely on charity. Give me a few days. I'll call you. Got a card?"

John gave him one. "Call me as soon as you know anything, doc, er, Beckett," he corrected to the other man's glare. "It's police business, like I said."

"You didn't say that, but all right." Carson looked up suddenly. "Friends of yours?"

John turned in the chair, expecting Mikey's goons although the debt had been paid. Instead he saw two men in dark suits. Recognized them. "Not exactly. Crap." He watched them approach.

"I knew you'd show up. That thing you wanted me to find. Don't have a line on it yet."

"You found something else," Richard Woolsey accused. Eyes narrowing behind his glasses.

John shrugged. Silent. "I can charge you for assaulting one of my clients, detective. You are lucky that Mr. Caldwell doesn't want to press any charges."

"So he does work for you. Knew it."

"Enough, Dick. Go on. You're not helping the situation," Rodney McKay advised.

"Is there some sort of trouble here, gentlemen? I don't want any trouble in my bar," Carson threatened.

"No. No trouble at all, Mr. Beckett. We were just leaving. Weren't we, John?" Rodney asked.

"Were we? I want another drink." John turned back to the bar, dismissing them.

"I don't think you need another."

"What are you, my mother?" John snapped. Paused. He recalled saying the exact same thing in a casino. Where he had encountered a guy who wasn't quite a guy. A chase. A fall from the top of the building but the guy had walked away as if it had been nothing. Pain throbbed and John rubbed his temple. The memory gone as quickly as it had come.

"Let's go, John. We need to talk."

"No. I need a drink." John gestured. His back still to the two men. Annoyed. Weary. In pain. He felt nauseous suddenly and grimaced. The pills and alcohol not mixing very well. He realized he hadn't had a decent meal the whole day. His stomach grumbled a reminder. He closed his eyes, rubbed his forehead. Wondered idly if he could crash on Moira's brown and green couch for a few hours.

A hand touched his shoulder. "Let's go, detective, you can–"

John caught the hand at his shoulder. Rose in a fluid, graceful motion to his feet. Turning at the same time and wrenching Richard's arm. Spinning and shoving the man into the wall. Richard yelped in surprise, in pain as John held him pinned there, arm at a dangerous angle against his back. "I could arrest you for assaulting a police officer! How would that be, Dick?"

"Let go of me! I'll have you for assault and battery and–"

"You shouldn't have done that, Dick," Rodney temporized with a sigh. "John, please, let him go. I need you to come with us. With me. Please."

John debated. Freed the other man and stepped away from him. Richard turned, wincing. Hugging his arm to his chest. John shrugged. Met Rodney's gaze. "You keep him away from me. Got it?"

"Got it. We'll go. Please." Rodney gestured towards the door.

John nodded, about to follow when Carson coughed loudly. "Detective? You owe me for those drinks." His eyebrows waggled, a not too subtle hint.

John eyed him, about to protest as he had already paid. Realized. He stepped to the bar. "When I get results, doc," he said quietly, then added in a louder voice, "just put it on my tab."

"Fine...but that tab is getting awfully high. And don't–"

"Call me doc, got it," John finished for him. "Let's get this over with," John said. Headed out of the bar. Rodney followed on his heels, glancing back to see Richard scowling at him.

"I told you not to underestimate him," Rodney commented.

Even in this universe John Sheppard would not tolerate a fool.


	8. Chapter 8

Vegas Blues: I Walk the Line8

"_Eat up. Get stronger. Think and hope. Think and hope."_

The burger was amazing. Juicy, tender. Full of rich beefy flavor with a hint of grilled onions. Dripping with cheese and mustard. The tang of steak sauce unexpected. Lettuce and pickles crunched deliciously. The bun was soft, contained a trace of onion and the sesame seeds danced along his tongue. The Coke was cold, ice cold. Clearing his mind much more than the alcohol had. Quenching his thirst. Ice rattled in the glass.

John smiled as he devoured the cheeseburger. Ravenous. Downed the Coke with quick swallows. Wiped his mouth with the napkin and made a satisfied sound in his throat. The pain in his head had finally dulled to a whisper, an echo he could ignore. The diner was cold, deserted. An out of the way place on an out of the way road in the middle of nowhere. Usually that was where the best places were to be found. It had a fifties retro decor, all tile and glass and turquoise chairs. Booths with retro menus and a jukebox that didn't work. Still, it was clean. And the food was amazing.

"Better now?" Rodney finished his burger. Sat back and smiled. Relaxing for a moment. For once not having to be mindful of his every step, his every word. Monitoring his phone at all times. Monitoring every possible situation and analyzing every possible outcome. Just having lunch with a guy. Two guys having lunch in Nevada. Nothing out of the ordinary.

"Yeah. Thanks." John looked round. The sun was a yellow glare outside. A ball of heat that washed all the color out of the sky. A white sky, almost. Along the desert sands bleached by the heat to a dull brown haze. Even the scrub was brown out here, stunted. A few cactus stood tall, needled arms outstretched like some pagan sacrifice.

"I'm sorry about Dick. Sometime he can be, well..."

"A dick?" The two men smiled in agreement. "I noticed. Not that you've been very forthcoming."

"Part of the job. You understand."

"Not really."

Rodney held out his hand. Waited. John frowned. Fished around and gave him the device even as it flared to life at his touch. Three dots blinked on its screen. Rodney took it, turning it round as he studied it. Secured it into the pocket of his jacket.

"What is it?" John asked. Downed a French fry. Salt tingled on his tongue.

"A life signs detector."

"It activated the second I touched it," John noted.

"Yes. Because you have the gene. It responds to a certain genetic quirk only a few of us have. Yours is especially strong." He waited, but John said nothing. Asked no questions about it. Rodney didn't know if he should be relieved. Or disappointed. "Thank you for returning it. We're still looking for the other thing. The device in the picture I gave you?" he reminded. John nodded. "So if you do happen upon it please inform us. Inform me."

"Where is the life signs detector from?"

"Why would ask that?" Rodney asked, curious.

"It's pretty high tech. But not like anything I've ever seen, and I've seen just about everything. It doesn't look like the same kind of technology. That thing you want me to find, that's something different, isn't it? And I don't know how I know this but the detector didn't belong to that, that suspect, or to that, that thing...did it?"

"You're right. That thing couldn't activate it. Tell me, John, how are those memories coming along?"

"They'd be better if you would just fucking tell me what the hell happened to me," he complained.

"There's nothing I can tell you. I'm sorry."

"Are you? Well, that's just peachy, isn't it? You said you brought me back. From what? From where? I think I know now. I died, didn't I?" Rodney's eyes widened and John got the confirmation he expected. Needed. But where one blank was filled there were several others just gaping, waiting to be filled.

Rodney nodded. "Yes. You did." His voice was quiet. Apologetic, even. "Briefly. In the end you did the right thing. Going back when you realized where the, the suspect was. You saved people, John. Unlike what happened in your past."

"I see. And now what? You brought me back, for what? Why?"

There was a long silence. The hum of the air conditioner could be heard. The clink of plates in the back of the kitchen. The silence stretched and stretched. And stretched until Rodney moved to his feet. "Because we need you. I couldn't...I couldn't just let John Sheppard die."

There was a weight of emotion that completely baffled John. A burden that he could see but for the life of him could not understand. A connection to a man he had just met. Barely knew. Could hardly stand, at times. He wanted to ask how he was brought back. To ask why again as the answer was insufficient. Confusing.

Rodney threw a mess of bills onto the table, paying for the meal. His wedding ring glinted as it caught a ray of sunlight penetrating the glass window. "I can't say more, John. If you find that other device let me know." He wanted to say more, do more, but instead he just left.

John watched him enter the black van. Watched as it drove away from the diner. John's own red car was parked nearby. Having insisted on taking his own method of transportation unlike the last time. He could remember being taken to a facility in a black van. But no other details yet. Except that hallway. A room. A table. Bits and pieces floating in his mind, disjointed. Dissimilar. Like words out of a story in no order, and consequently making no sense.

Rodney tapped the button on the steering wheel. "It's done," he informed.

"You got the detector?" Richard asked from the facility.

"Yes."

"Tell me you didn't reveal too much."

"Just enough to whet his appetite," Rodney admitted. Could imagine Richard's frown.

"Damn it, Rodney!" Richard flared, leaning over the speaker phone on the table. "We agreed about this! It's bad enough you brought him back but now you're actively involving him!"

"He's involved, Dick, whether you like it or not," Rodney argued. Eyes on the road as it shimmered in the heat.

"I don't like it! He's a liability, Rodney! I don't know why you can't see that. We're not in Pegasus. He's not like the other one."

"But he could be," Rodney argued.

"No. He never will be like that other John Sheppard. He's flawed. Damaged beyond repair."

"Maybe, maybe not. We need him whether you like it or not, Dick. Now that he's met Moira–"

"Oh please! Like that would make a difference to this guy? Oh sure, he might try to change, he might be on the straight and narrow for a little while but it won't last. A leopard can't change its spots. Don't say I didn't warn you. We've got to contain the situation. We've got to clean it all up. I've got the cleaners in place."

"What? What does that mean? What have you done? Dick? Richard?" Rodney swore as the connection was abruptly ended. He pressed his foot to the gas pedal, fearing the worst.

John finished his Coke. Stood. Glanced round. The proprietress was standing at the counter, cleaning it. Ignoring them. A pretty woman with auburn hair and a quick smile. Plants proliferated on the counter, along the walls. Hanging baskets with pink and red blossoms. Bleeding heart vines. He suddenly recalled the plant's name. Clearly she had a green thumb even in this dry, desert environment.

He eyed the table. Saw that Rodney had left quite the generous tip. He fingered a twenty, saw there were two more under the ubiquitous ones and tens. Pocketed it after a moment's thought. A brief hiccup of decision, debate. A brief conflict quickly resolved. A better man would have let it be. He wasn't that better man. Not yet, anyway.

John walked over to the proprietress. Smiled. "Thanks for the meal. It was great. Really great." The praise was genuine.

She smiled at him. "I'm glad to hear it, sir. Come again."

"I will. If I can find it, that is." They shared a gentle laugh. "Does the guy I'm with come here often? I'm just curious how he found this place."

"Sometimes. He's a regular." She colored suddenly, as if revealing something she shouldn't have. And John got the feeling it had nothing to do with a secret government agency and more to do with the fact that there were emotions involved. Personal ones.

"Ah. Well, thanks again." He read her name badge. "Katie."

It seemed that even Doctor Rodney McKay had his little secrets to keep.


	9. Chapter 9

Vegas Blues: I Walk the Line9

"_Dry as a desert outside. No place to go."_

A full moon engulfed the sky. A clear, warm night. Still as the grave. Not a breath stirred the evening. The sky was painted in a silver sheen that only the glaring lights of Vegas could diminish. Moonlight flooded the small apartment. Scattered beams across the floor. Along the table. Throwing papers and pictures into stark relief. Turning all colors into black and white.

John lifted the sketch of the creature. Stared at it. Set it aside with weary resignation. He sat back, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. That damn voice was haunting him. Melodic and dulcet tones sounding alien. Creepy. Threatening.

And suddenly he was there. He could see a cell bathed in blue. Walls of plexiglass, no iron bars. A single chair. A man clad in a bland prison jumpsuit. But it wasn't a man. It was...it was...the name escaped him. A creature. Resembling the sketch, but older. Emaciated. Starving. Long stringy hair around a gaunt, narrow face. Rows and rows of sharp teeth. Slitted eyes like a cat's. Tattoo markings on the face. Claws instead of nails on the pale, pale hands.

The thing just stood there. Speaking. Making nonsensical sentences that didn't even rhyme. Bad poetry. Until it had faced him. Spoke to him. Claimed to see the future. Claimed to see his destiny. Knew his name. Said it out loud. They can get inside your head.

"_I can see you, John Sheppard. Can you see me?"_

John jolted, nearly fell off the couch. That had sounded right in his ear. Not a memory but an almost live communication. His heart skipped a beat as he stared round his apartment, but he was alone. He blinked, half-expecting to see the creature standing in some corner like some B-movie vampire. He hadn't realized he had been dozing. At least that is what he told himself. It had been a dream, nothing more. The moonlight was a spray of silver over the papers spread on the table.

He gathered the reports and stuffed them back into the manila folder, but they spilled out again, as if demanding to be seen. To be remembered. He grabbed the tabloid. Glared at the headline.

MYSTERY ILLNESS FELLS MURDER SUSPECT! John swore. Where was Chuck getting his information? John reached for the bottle of pills when a knock sounded on his door.

Scowling he stood. Moved to the door. Peered through the peephole. Unlocked the door and opened it. Tore the RENT PAST DUE! notice off and crumpled it in his fist. He gestured, a tilt of his head as he stepped aside. Allowing ingress.

"About time! I've been knocking for at least ten minutes!" The African-American young man complained as he entered the apartment. He deposited a pizza box onto the table. "And you said no phone calls. Hey, I hope pepperoni's okay. That's all they had leftover. You know, I'm getting pretty good at this snurching thing and–"

"Ford!" John reprimanded sharply as he shut the door. "What did you get?"

"Oh." Aiden Ford turned, smiled. Held out a thin file. "Not much, I'm afraid. You're lucky I've got connections in Reno. Hey, can I have a slice?"

"Help yourself." As Aiden attacked the pizza John took the file. Perused it. Frowned. There wasn't much information contained within it. A very sparse report of one John Doe, later identified as one John Sheppard. Admitted with two GSWs to the torso. John touched his chest. There were more than two marks on him. There was no record of a TOD. Evidently he had been alive when admitted to the hospital.

He scratched his head, thinking hard. Memories coalescing into an almost coherent narrative. Being shot in the desert. Miles from anywhere. Dying. Brought back somehow. Ending up in a hospital in Reno where he recuperated for a month before being discharged. With no memory of what had happened to him. No memory of his last case. Returning to Vegas to learn about the supposed drive-by shooting. To pick up the pieces of his life and resume living it. Aware of the large gap in his mind, in his memory. Like an scab he couldn't pick. An itch he couldn't scratch.

Aiden was devouring a second piece of pizza when John set the file onto the table. He glanced at the older man. "Sorry, Sheppard, that's all I could get. Somebody didn't want a detailed record of your stay there."

"Sounds like it," John agreed. He recalled the attending physician's name. Keller. Felt a shudder realizing he was lucky to have survived. "Who's Reed?"

"Who? Oh, the doctor who works in that hospital. I don't think he knew more than what was in that report. Oh shit! Sorry!" Cheese had dribbled onto the table, onto the reports spilling out of the manila folder. Aiden hastily scooped it off the papers, the pictures. "Wow! What happened to that guy?"

John hastily shoved the graphic photos into the folder. "You ask too many questions."

"That's what you pay me for, to ask, whoa!" Aiden lifted the sketch of the creature to examine it. "What the heck is this? Looks like a Halloween costume or a vampire or a monster or–"

John snatched the sketch out of his greasy hands. "Never mind! Is that all?"

"What? Oh, yes. For now. That black box thingy? Nothing on it yet. Word is anything out of that area with the downed power lines is toxic. Radioactive and it won't be on the market. Too dangerous. Too hot. Get it?" He laughed.

"Yeah, you're a riot, Ford. Go."

"Okay. Some guys have no sense of humor." Aiden stood, wiping his hands on his jeans. "You know, those marks on the dead guys? They almost look like fingerprints. What do you make of that? That's weird, right?"

"Pretty weird," John agreed, herding the voluble younger man towards the door.

"See? I could be your partner!"

"I don't need a partner."

"Once I get into the academy, that is," Aiden amended, enthusiasm undiminished. "And pass the exams. I can be your partner, Sheppard, and we can catch the bad guys and the monsters!"

"I don't want a partner," John clarified, herding the man out of the apartment.

"You will, you will, Sheppard, once you go after that serial killer or vampire or monster or whatever is killing people like that and I can–"

"Goodnight, Ford." John shut the door. Shook his head but had to smile at the kid's determination and optimism. He sat on the couch. Stomach grumbling as the scent of hot, fresh pizza lured him. Instead he eyed the sketch again. Then looked at the photos. Gruesome pictures of the victims from the case he couldn't remember.

Fingerprints the kid had said. John stared at the circular markings. He opened his shirt. Touched the scabs, the old wounds. Two were definitely from bullets. But the others, further up on his chest felt different. And he knew with certainty they were not from bullets.

Another memory surfaced. More recent. The same cell, bathed in blue. The same creature. But John was prone on the floor. On his back. Cold as ice. He couldn't feel his limbs. Bloody shirt ripped open. The creature leaning over him, on him. As close as a lover. Teeth bared. Fetid breath warm.

Its hand close, closer. Fingers splayed. Claws glinting in the blue light. Something protruded from the palm of one hand. The hand brushing along his chest. Then slamming into him, onto him with surprising force. Pressing, pressing, as if to burrow into him, through him.

The pain was excruciating. He seemed to watch from a distance, then was hurled violently back into his body, into the fire of pain and loss. A surge hit him. Adrenaline. Like hot liquid in his veins. Body bucking from the sudden shock. His heart pumping as if it would explode.

Then the loss of all of that. The loss of life, draining away. The ebb of life, but then the flow again. A tidal wave of energy, rebirth, emotion.

Then nothing.

Waking up in a hospital room, told the lie of a drive-by shooting. Recuperating from a traumatic injury. He knew his identity, knew the year, the date, the time, but not what had happened to him. Not until the memories had started to float to the surface.

John stared at the photos. He turned his hand towards him. Wiggled his fingers. Eyed his smooth palm. He splayed his fingers. Touched the scabs around his heart. His fingers fit along each scab with almost eerie precision. His palm pressing over his heart.

He closed his eyes, trying to remember, trying to remember. The press of rough fingers. Burrowing into his flesh. Something in the palm digging into him. A rush of fire entering his veins. Giving, then taking, then restoring. Aging, then youth returned.

Death into life into death into life.

John opened his eyes.

And he knew with horrifying certainty what had been done to him to bring him back.


End file.
